The Hay Rake
by Kate Barnes
One evening I stopped by the field to watch the
hay rake
drawn toward me by two black, tall, ponderous horses
who stepped
like conquerors over the fallen oat stalks,
light-shot dust at
their heels, long shadows before them.
At the ditch the driver
turned back in a wide arc,
the off-horse scrambling, the near-horse
pivoting neatly.
The big side-delivery rake came about with a
shriek—
its tines were crashing, the iron-bound tongue
groaned aloud—
then, Hup, Diamond! Hup, Duke! and they set off
west,
trace-deep in dust, going straight into the low
sun.
The clangor grew faint, distance and light consumed
them;
a fiery chariot rolled away in a cloud of god
and faded slowly,
brightness dying into brightness.
The groaning iron, the prophesying
wheels,
the mighty horses with their necks like storms—
all disappeared;
nothing was left but a track
of dust that climbed like smoke up
the evening wind.
